


221B, Baker Street; Fireside Chairs at Once

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baker Street, Brotherly Love, Friendship, Gen, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Kinship, Opening Up, The Talk, chatting, fireside chairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7755934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's deduction skills are not too shabby, and he's surprised to see Sherlock be so forthcoming with information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	221B, Baker Street; Fireside Chairs at Once

It took two weeks for John to make any real attempts to ask Sherlock about his seizures. Not that that is what he knew they were to begin with. He had agonised in the first three days about Sherlock's twitchiness and apparent lack of concentration, assuming Sherlock had some kind of learning disability or Autistic spectrum disorder, before he had found the box and empty blisters of Lamotrigine in the kitchen bin. He wasn't set on his diagnosis, but he came to the conclusion that Sherlock experienced focal seizures and just hadn't told him. Which was rich, as far as John was concerned. It was Sherlock who had said that potential flatmates should know everything about one another. 

Still, he found the right moment - such as it was - and took his opportunity to breach the subject with Sherlock as they sat in almost silence, with the Baker Street flat fire burning bright and warming the open living space as it cast an amber flicker light and shadows around them. 

John folded down his newspaper and left it on his lap. He considered picking up his cup of tea, just for something to fiddle with as he spoke, but opted out of it. He cleared his throat, looked up at Sherlock as he passed a lock of hair between the fingers of his right hand. 

“So, Lamotrigine…” John said in as non-confrontational a tone as he could manage. 

Sherlock's hand stilled in his hand and his keen eyes darted to John, away from the quiet television he hadn't really been watching. “Four days longer than I expected.” He said in a cheerful tone. “How long have you been brewing over that?” 

John smirked and looked to his feet. “A few days.” He took a deep breath and brought his eyes back up. “So it's epilepsy?”

Sherlock drew his hand from his hair and straightened himself in his chair. “Yes.”

John nodded his head. “I've witnessed seizures, I think.” He scratched the side of his face. “Simple focal seizures? You have lapses in concentration a lot. I assumed it was just that you didn't want to talk to people but I see now that it was a misjudgement on my part.” 

“So what is your deduction, doctor?” Sherlock pressed his fingers together and fixed John with a stare. 

John frowned. “I'm no neurologist.” He admitted sheepishly. 

“Well, you came away from me not paying attention to it being seizures, so go deeper.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“Frontotemporal epilepsy, given the absences…” John suggested with a clear indication that he was grasping at straws. He knew epilepsy broadly, like most GPs, and his experience didn't really move further off blood tests and repeat prescriptions - it was not a primary care staple. 

“JME.” Sherlock said bluntly. “Since I was a pre-teen. That is, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy. Myoclonic jerks after waking up or when I'm tired since I've been taking the Lamotrigine. Of course, the absence seizures that I barely notice but others do, and tonic-clonic seizures that are highly preventable but hard to predict.” Sherlock said, so robotically it was as though he had given the line a hundred times before. He had, of course, and John felt a little stab of guilt at that. 

“Well managed on the Lamotrigine?” John asked with a waver. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Mostly. It tends to exacerbate the myoclonic jerks, but it controls the absences well.”

John crossed his feet at his ankles. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Most people have assumed I'm just on a comedown, although recently the prognosis of onlookers has been Tourette’s Syndrome which has been interesting to research.” 

John nodded, “If the myoclonus is increased by the Lamotrigine then I can understand why people would assume a movement disorder or something like Tourette’s.” 

“Did you?” Sherlock asked, looking away from John and into the fire. 

John frowned, “Did I what?” 

“Assume either of those.” Sherlock looked back at him. 

John blushed and hoped it was lost into the firelight. “I assumed you had learning disabilities. I don't know what, some kind of savant or something.” Sherlock let out a loud laugh and, after a moment, John found himself chuckling too. 

“No learning disabilities, I assure you.” Sherlock said as he calmed his laughter. “But I'm certain that would amuse my brother.” 

“He does strike me as one to laugh at you.” John mumbled in an undertone and Sherlock frowned as he shook his head. 

“He’s firm, yes, but he has always been supportive. Mycroft and I are resigned to my epilepsy status and have been since day one. Where my parents have flailed during seizures, Mycroft has been a rock and, insufferable as he is, I cannot take that away from his tally of good traits.” 

John smiled softly. “Perhaps I'll be around to see it, then? Mycroft earning a tally.” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and considered the ways in which Mycroft earned his “tallies”. He shook his head. “I hope you're never around to see it.”


End file.
